


Myth

by Aryas_aria



Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, a game of thrones - Fandom
Genre: AU Trojan War, F/M, Greek gods, Greek mythology is the old gods, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), No show or book spoilers, The Aeneid References, The Old Gods (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: Part 2 of Dark (War) where Arya goes to the underworld to beg for Jon’s life
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612894
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Myth

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on Trojan War and the myth of Orpheus & Eurydice, with a few elements of The Aeneid

“You say you want to die for love but you know nothing about dying and you know nothing about love.”-Hector, _Troy_

***

The night had always been a peaceful, joyous time for Arya. As a devout priestess and worshiper of the old gods, the darkness had never frightened her. Oh sure, there was always love for mighty Apollo and the chariot he would track across the sky, and his ardor grew as winter raged on and he spent less and less time in the sky. But she had always loved to watch the weirwood leaves rustle in the wind under tender Artemis’ care, gazing as the doe and wolves would graze the fields together, in perfect harmony under the goddess’ watchful eye. Or even nights she would swim in the pools of the hot spring, as Hades and Persephone would look up at her through the murky depths, fondness in their eyes, for she had always paid them their due, even when others sought to neglect the rulers of the underworld. But what she would love most during the night, would be the silver wisps of smoke that would hang around Robb’s shoulders and Bran’s hands as bright Athena would whisper her secrets of battle in the black of night, so no one else could hear. The old gods used to delight in her, and she in them. But that was before the war, before they abandoned Winterfell and the North to the Southroners, those idiots who believed in one god with seven faces.

But now, the night is full of terror and pain. She spends her nights watching out for raiders or shadow cats and snow bears and wolves not at all tamed by Artemis’ spirit. And when she watches, she remembers. Remembers the summer snows that she had played in with her siblings, Bran always winning because his aim had been blessed by the Old god Apollo himself. Remembers her sweet brother’s folly in loving a woman who could only ever love herself. Arya sees that now, sees that Daenerys had the power to end the war long before it started, but that she had not. She remembers Jon, how he had happened upon her so unexpectedly, like snow in Dorne or roses in winter. He had been beautiful, even in the beginning, even as she hated him. But somewhere along the way, she had stopping being a prisoner, and started being a lover, perhaps that was always her fate. But the gods took Jon away in the cruelest way possible. Because first Jon had broken her heart by killing Robb, her brave and noble and truest brother, and then Bran had killed Jon. Then Theon Greyjoy killed Bran as she clutched him so fiercely, moments after Jon had breathed his last, as Bran rushed to get her to Rickon and the hope of safety.

She had indeed found Rickon, Ice in his grasp and as many of their people as he could find. They left Winterfell immediately, sneaking through the burned land past Longlake and Queenscrow, up and up until the men of the Nights Watch had agreed to let them pass the Wall. She had thought then that surely Demeter would protect them, that feral goddess who had always seen fit to guide them through winter. Surely the goddess reigned in the lands beyond the wall, for she had never seen the like of such snow, such wild abandonment to the goddess’ whims, surely they would be safe now.

But it was not to be so. On and on they went, sometimes battling, sometimes befriending clans of the Free Folk, those fickle beings who worshiped only Pan and denounced all other gods. How could the old gods abandon her so? They had given her joy and happiness, her mother and father, Robb and Bran and Rickon and even Sansa. They gave her Jon. But bit by bit, they had taken each of them away until it was just her, Rickon, and broken people –the remnants of the beating heart of the North, forced to freeze beyond the wall.

Then, like lightning, some god had taken pity on them, had filled their nostrils with the scent of burning weirwood leaves and heard their anguished prayers, had brought them to Mance Rayder’s camp, had bonded Rickon and Tormund Giantsbane in friendship. Finally, respite for her people! But not for her, never for her tortured soul. If Jon was gone, then half of her was gone. How could she ever smile or laugh or love again? She couldn’t, not in this life. The days became bleak once more for her after that, and nothing could regain her vivacity. Not even Rickon’s plans with Mance of a wilding army, united to fight for them to regain Winterfell and launch a new dynasty in which Free Folk and Northerner worked together, could free her from her melancholy. Jon was gone like father, mother, Robb, Bran and all the rest. She could never be free.

She doesn’t understand how she could love a person so much. How the feast turns to ash in her mouth if Jon is not there to eat with her, how wine turns to blood if Jon does not drink with her, how even the stories seem wrong if it is not his lips to tell them to her now. She had always honored slender Aphrodite in the past, so why must the goddess torment her so?

“Arya,” Rickon sings, soft as the fur her wolf used to have, “sister, what can I do?” Rickon is still a boy in some ways, though Athena has blessed him with cunning. But she can see the too bright blush of the lover goddess in his cheeks as well, and she hopes that Aphrodite will not make him repeat the same mistakes as Bran and herself, that Athena will claim him as her hero, if only to save him from ruin. Wisdom and love seldom go hand in hand after all, and she sees the way the wilding women look at him even now, Val with her blonde locks, far too like Daenerys for Arya’s taste, or even Ygritte, kissed by a fire that will surely burn any man who would touch her.

“We are not titans or gods to turn back time,” she answers, grey eyes looking through him. “Do not concern yourself with me, dear brother. Your focus should be on the living now, not the dead.”

“And do you not draw breath? Is your heart still beating? Where is my sister? Is she not in front of me?”

“No,” she shakes her head sadly. “My heart is broken; if it beats at all, it thrums so softly even the fair Muses could not hear the rhythm in it.” She can tell he is startled at such an admission. And ten years ago, she would have laughed herself had anyone told her that _she_ of all people would be heartsick. But that was before Jon found the beast within her and matched it with his own.

Rickon looks at her with a face that is trying to understand, but can’t. She is thankful for that. Love is the death of duty, the bane of honor, and how ever unfair it may be, the hope of the North rests on his shoulders. Let Arya be the broken one, Rickon must stay focused. “I wish I could ease your pain,” he whispers, despair sinking into his voice. Then, a moment later, “what’s it like? Love?”

“You remember Robb and Alys? Or mother and father? The way they were with each other?”

“Yes,” Rickon answers immediately, and it lets her knows that he too has been thinking of the past. He’s too young to be burdened with such horrible memories, but she prays the gods will bless him to make new ones. “Yes, I remember mother and father…. I remember the way Alys screamed when Robb fell.” He whispers softly, to save her from more hurt, but it is not something she can escape.

“I loved Robb with all my heart,” Arya answer sadly, “and Bran, too, though his heart led us to ruin. But Jon… I never wanted any of them to kill each other, never wanted blood to be on any of their hands but…”

“But?”

“But the world is made by killers,” she answers. “And soon you will have more than enough blood on your own hands,” she takes his hands then, pressing a kiss upon both his palms, “I will not love you less for it, though I wish there was a different way.”

“And you love Jon despite everything?” There is no judgement in his voice, and for that she is thankful. He’s just curious is all, her baby brother, she used to steal blueberry tarts from the kitchens for him. This is like those times, his hands out and begging for a taste of something sweet, something good to come from her.

“I love Jon with all that I am. Everything I did in life, everything I was, it all led me to him. I—I can’t describe it, what it means to have something so pure. It was not a trick of Aphrodite like Bran and Dany, no fickle whim to be gone and forgotten so soon. It was steady, unyielding. It was as sure as knowing winter would come, as joyous as the hope of spring, despite everything we went through. I miss him endlessly.”

“I do not believe the gods would abandon you to such a fate, Arya. You are far too good a person for such things. Never despair, Fortuna will bless you when you least expect it.” He rises, leaving her to her thoughts. Could the gods have some other plan for her? Is she meant to help Rickon launch a new dynasty and reclaim her homeland? She cannot see it, cannot see past the mist of longing and despair.

***

When she sleeps tonight, Hypnos fills her mind with grey eyes and strong hands caressing her slowly, fully. _Jon!_ She would know his touch anywhere, the memory of his fingers imprinted on her skin for all of time. She bites her lip so hard when he finally turns her around to face him. Even in the dream he is beautiful, and the sobs stick in her throat. He catches the salty tears spilling out of her eyes in wonder. “Arya, love, why are you crying?”

“I miss you,” she says, voice thick and wobbling. “I miss you.”

“Oh Arya,” he sighs, “one day you will be here with me. With your brothers and your parents. You’ll be happy my love, I swear it. The gods—“

“The gods took you from me!” She cries. “I’m sorry,” she tries to touch him, but already his soul is slipping away. “I should have left when you asked, I should have run away with you.”

“You’ll always be a part of me, Arya. And I you.” He says in parting, dissolving as quickly as he had appeared.

For endless nights she prays that Hypnos will grant her the vision of Jon again, but her sleep is black and silent. That is, until serene Artemis enters her mind, dipped in moonglow and a sweetness hanging all around her like flowers in spring. “You have lost faith, dear servant,” the goddess says, her voice a melodious tickle in the back of Arya’s mind. “We have not abandoned you or your heart. You shall be with your love again, if—“ she pauses, intensely, “if you love him for true.”

“I do,” Arya cries, “I do, I do. Whatever I must do, just please, end this agony.”

“The price for love is everything,” Hera glides up to her, effortlessly graceful. “All that you have been and all that you would be.”

“Your eyes,” noble Athena intones behind her, “your ears, your mouth, all of you. Are you willing to give it all up just now? Would you risk so much for him?”

“Everything,” Arya answers firmly. “All that I am, I give to you.” She will not spend another moment in this limbo, somewhere between life and death, too afraid of either.

“Then you must keep your courage, for the one you seek is Hades,” Hera answers.

“Then I will go to him,” Arya proclaims. And if the goddesses are surprised at her resolve, they do not show it. But Arya will not be afraid, not when she has seen men dying for ten years, not when she knows that everyone must meet pale Hades eventually.

***

She is waiting for Rickon by the heart fire, her things already packed and secured on her horse. She has made offerings to Demeter, to protect her form the weather; to Artemis, to shield her from the beasts; to Athena for cunning, and Hermes to guide her steps, and Aphrodite most of all to succeed, to be blessed with the man the goddess saw fit to give her. The only thing left to do is say one, final goodbye.

He knows the moment he sees her standing by the fire. Her hair is in a thick, long braid at her back, the warmest furs she has adorn her slender shoulders, and her horse readied. She sees the acceptance in his eyes, and maybe Rickon had known even before she did that she cannot go on this way. “Where will you go?” His voice rasps, but it doesn’t break.

“To the Heart of Winter,” she answers simply, unafraid. That knowledge does startle him a little.

“You’d tempt Hades then?”

“I would beg him to give Jon back to me,” she responds calmly, “I have not been alive for some time yet, Rickon. I am prepared to fight for the chance to live again.”

“And if he refuses? If he keeps you there for himself?” It is on the tip of his tongue to beg her to stay, Arya sees. But ultimately, he has known that the Arya before him now has no natural place in this world left. Better for her to get her happiness where she may.

“Then I will watch from below as you reclaim our homeland, and hear the thousand songs men will sing of you,” she smiles at him, hugging him fiercely before letting him go. “If I don’t return to you, remember me as I was. Remember the summer snows and the heart tree with it’s scary face. Remember mother and father and all the rest laughing by the great hearth, remember what it was to be happy, Rickon. And then go make a happy life for yourself.” He kisses her forehead in answer, helping her mount her horse. She turns back to watch him until he is nothing more than a dot in the horizon, and the tears she sheds freeze on her face.

***

She does not know if it has been days or weeks, for time seems to pass by both slowly and all at once when she is on the frozen plains by herself. Artemis has blessed her to always have enough food, and Hestia guides her hands to ensure she always has a fire. But she is alone for true now, only her horse for company. It gives her mind no rest, and it always drifts to Jon.

Today as she travels, she thinks back to the beginning, that first night in his tent when she held a knife to his neck. To this day, she doubts she would have actually cut him, but… he was the best fighter on the South’s side, Azor Ahai. To kill him would be to save a hundred of her countrymen, perhaps even a thousand. She recalls how she had slipped the blade under his neck silently, holding her breath as her heart hammered wildly in her chest. “Do it,” his voice has seemed to thunder in the deafening silence, his eyes still closed. She hesitates for a second, and that is all it takes for him to lunge, flinging the knife from her grip and pinning her under him. He trails his left hand up her body until he grasps her throat securely. It feels like a lifetime passes by as he stares into her eyes, both of them breathing heavily. “It seems you’re much more deadly than I gave you credit for,” he finally says, an amused smile on his lips. He releases her quickly after that, and soon his snores fill the tent. She spent the whole night indignant at his ability to sleep so easily, but also relieved that she had not killed him. 

She spots a mountain in the distance, and pushes herself and her horse toward it, the memory spurring her closer toward her destiny.

She thinks back to the first time Jon had surprised her. It had been a bright day, cold in truth, but the gods had all been there, watching from afar as men battled each other to the death. She had only been in Jon’s care a few weeks at that time, but he had already turned her biting words against her, transforming them into hesitant conversation, a truce of sorts. She remembers cleaning his tent thoroughly, wondering if she should fetch water or not for when he returned, for she knew that he would return, but deciding against it. The men already leered at her enough, it would not do for one absent from the battle to catch her unawares. And in the midst of her dilemma, Jon had burst in, flushed and hot and bleeding. The sight of blood had not startled her, for he always came back dripping in it, but the knowledge that it was indeed _his_ blood rather shocked her. The gash trailing the length of his arm had been gruesome, and she had thought for sure that he would never wield a sword again. Still, she took his arm gently, cleaned the blood and bound it up as best she could. But something in her manner must have alerted him to her unease, for he had laughed at her, a deep and rolling chuckle that started low in his belly until it had burst forth from his golden lips. “This is nothing my dear, I’m afraid the gods don’t mean for me to die so easily. I’ll be healed by tomorrow, just you wait and see. You won’t be free of me that easily.”

“I fear I will never be free of you Jon Targaryen,” she quipped, and how right she had been, even then. “But surely you mean your one god with seven faces, your Warrior perhaps? And not the old gods of the North who will bless you so?”

“I’m afraid I do mean your old gods.” He had laughed again in the face of her shock. “My mother was a worshipper of your faith after all,” he said, “just wait and see, Asclepius will set me to rights.”

And sure enough, the next day, his arm was whole again, and he had been eager to don his armor once more. “I must disprove my father’s notion that he is the most holy,” he jested to her, picking her up and twirling her around as if to demonstrate his health, “he is only blessed by the seven, I am blessed by the old gods beyond count.”

“And yet you are still Azor Ahai,” Arya retorted, a hot flash of shame stamping down the delight at being in his arms for the first time. But when he had left the tent, she sent up a silent prayer to the gods. _Let it be true, give strength to his arm and let him come back to me._ She had told herself it was only to ensure she was protected, that no one else would hardly treat her as respectably as Jon did, but she knew that at least a part of her wanted to feel his hands on her again, perhaps even more, for Jon Targaryen was surely bold enough for it.

The memory brings a smile to her lips as she treks deeper into a small cave for shelter. She will be at the gates of the Heart of Winter soon if Hermes stays true.

When she sleeps, she sees Jon’s face, white with anger and fury. She can feel the hands of Rhaegar’s men gripping her painfully, the king himself taunting Jon by clutching her face. She hates this man almost as much as Jon does. But Azor Ahai or no, it is death to Jon to attack the king, so she swallows her anger, tries to soothe his own. And it does work, for a time. Jon protests in a different way, refusing to fight, Zeus tipping the scales in favor of her people.

That only makes Rhaegar hate her more. He works her endlessly, serving and amusing him and his lords and heroes. The young and foolish soldiers grope her at Rhaegar’s persuasion, but the ones with sense take their que from Samwell Tarly, keeping their hands respectfully to themselves. And Rhaegar always threatens to have her beaten when a man refuses to take her to his tent, to enjoy the king’s own whore, for fear that Jon will kill them. He threatens, but he never lays a hand on her, too afraid of what Jon will do should he learn of it. That alone sees her through those dark days, the knowledge that Jon will let their precious war burn if he does not have her.

Then, without warning or notice, the king unbinds her hands and sends her on her way. “I will not lose this war over your little romance,” he mutters in disgust, pushing her out of his tent. Her feet take the path to Jon’s tent apprehensively, her face is bruised and bloodied, her body almost fails her, but somehow she makes it to his tent before exhaustion overcomes her.

And oh, how careful he is after that, how tender and gentle and good to her. He bathes her and binds her cuts, rubs balm into her bruises, pushes her hair from her face tenderly. He takes care of her, he cares for her. They’re better after that night, after shy admissions and tentative hands. In the midst of blood and carnage and death, they find each other.

***

The Heart of Winter is colder than she could ever imagine, her own blood seemingly freezing her in place. She doesn’t think she could even remember what it is like to be warm as she stands at the veiled gates, higher than even Winterfell’s own had been, and made of solid ice. It would be a beautiful thing, if it were not the gates of Hell itself, of the underworld. But she has come so far, and she knows that Jon’s arms will set a fire to her that even hHdes himself could not extinguish, she need only reach her lover.

The descent passes all too quickly for her, bribing Charon and outwitting the three headed ice hound until she finds herself kneeling at the base of Hades and Persephone’s thrones. The room is warm and pleasant, almost unnatural in its artificial breezes and torchlight, the decadent ornaments carelessly sprawled about adorning the room almost hauntingly. She studies the way Hades throne is made of black obsidian, murky and imposing, catching the light from the torches until it gleams. And Persephone’s throne—all bone white weirwood, not at all warm like the heart tree in the Godswood used to be. And too must the deities be that are perched on each royal seat, not at all so loving as they had been years ago, glimpsing her as a child through the water’s reflection.

“A live one,” Persephone drawls and Arya thinks Hades smiles, but she cannot know for sure with her head still bowed respectfully.

“Indeed,” he quips, “rise lady Arya, state your business here.”

She stands on thrumming feet, careful to avert her gaze lest they be offended that a mortal has dared to gaze upon their faces. “Many thanks, my lord,” she utters, almost too hesitant to breathe too loudly. “I would beg your graces for… for… for Jon Targaryen. For my life returned to me,” she says.

“I am not my father to turn back the hands of time,” Hades answers, his voice calm. “You may speak to him if you wish, though I doubt his pieces will be able to help you.” Now it is Persephone’s turn to hide a smirk.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I did not mean—that was not what I meant,” she wishes silver tongued Athena could guide the right words out of her lips, but she is alone, for only the messenger gods are allowed in the realm of the God and Goddess of hell. “I mean to say that—that I am not a living thing. There is a heart inside me yes, but it does not beat as it once did. I have no place among the living if Jon is not by my side. I ask you to grant me life, to heal my heart.”

For a long moment, neither of them says anything, and Arya thinks she will find herself locked away for a thousand years, rolling stones or being plucked at endlessly. But then Persephone rises, dwindling herself down to be of a height with Arya and takes her hand. “You are heartsick, dear, and that I can understand better than most,” she shoots Hades an affectionate smile. “Perhaps there is something to be done?” She asks the question to her husband.

“You may take him with you,” Hades says, “on one condition.” It fills her stomach with dread, for this god is wilier than slippery Hermes when he wants to be. “You may have Jon Targaryen as long as he follows behind you until you are out of the Heart of Winter. You will not look upon his face until then.” She knows there is something afoot here, but she cannot place what exactly. And does she have any choice? This is the only way she will get Jon back. Hades, sensing her hesitation adds, “this task will be nothing if you really love him?”

“I do love him,” she answers right away, Persephone still holding her hand smiles at her. “I will accept your conditions, and offer my humble thanks to you both.”

They bid her to leave and she does, resolutely. She fears that the gods have tricked her, perhaps even delight in her suffering far more than she had ever given them credit for. But she will not play the fool for them, will show them that the wild child of her youth has finally learned obedience and humility. But the path upward is far harder than the trail that had sent her spiraling downward into their depths. She passes shadows of men and women, those souls who were neither good enough for Elysium nor wicked enough for Tartarus. And later she will laugh at herself for being delighted to see the three headed hound once more, snarling teeth and all. But when she sees Charon, when something turns in his expression, fear sets in. She tries to push it aside; succeeds even until she can finally cross the threshold of those icy gates once more. But as soon as the cold sets in, she turns to see Jon’s shade, joy bubbling forth and sweeping her up in rapture. It does not last.

Jon is gone in an instant, his beautiful image dissolving into nothingness right in front of her eyes. She drops to the snow covered ground, tearing her hair out in agony. What had she done wrong? Hades, he had said—

Horror grips her as she understands the silver tongued god’s instructions. Arya was not to turn around until they _both_ were out of the gates of hell; a fact the god did not choose to clarify. “Please,” she cries, tears freezing as they spill onto her cheeks, “end the pain, end it please. I—I cannot go on like this.” She must have stayed there for hours, begging any god who would listen to take pity on her. She thinks she might stay there forever, frozen in time, a weeping statue to adorn the gates of hell for all eternity. A fitting end for her, a true ice princess.

But she opens her eyes to find herself in a beautiful room, rich robes adorning her figure. The fire in the hearth is roaring in the corner, and food seems to overflow in abundance on the long table. She studies a delectable looking apple carefully, picking it up and turning it round and round. Before she can decide what new game Hades is playing, a door to her right opens and her mother and father enter. They are dressed in a similar fashion as herself, but more than that, they look younger. Her mother is smiling, and there are no scars on her father’s face or hands. “Arya, my child,” her father’s rich baritone voice startles her out of her trance. His arms open at just the right time to catch her as she throws herself on him.

“I missed you, I missed you both so much,” she cries, enveloping them both. Her mother brushes her hair affectionately, but before she can speak, Robb and Alys enter through the door, baby Rickard in their arms, Bran following closely behind. Robb’s skin is unblemished, and the golden hue on his face makes her want to weep. And Bran gives her a sheepish grin that makes her laugh in the face of it. It’s almost perfect, almost.

When he enters the room, she tenses for half a heartbeat. But a look to her family shows that they are all still smiling despite Jon’s entrance. A shy blush travels up her body, and she prays that this is for true. But his arms come around her, warm and solid and whole and she _feels_. Feels his heart beating wildly against her own, feels the fullness of his lips as they kiss her own, but most of all, she feels the heat of his body warming her own. “I told you my love,” he whispers so tenderly, “we would be together again.”

“So you did,” she smiles widely. It takes everything in her to give him a chaste kiss and not fall into the hunger she feels in her belly for him.

“Will you stay then?” He asks hopefully, and motions to the apple in her hand, half forgotten.

As if he’d even have to ask, as if she could ever be torn from his side again. Arya has lived a life without him and there’s no place for her up there, in world without Jon. And Hades’ words come back to her again. _This task will be nothing if you really love him._ She does love him, and she is prepared to die for him, to stay here with him and her family surrounding them. Hell or no, Jon’s arms are the only home she’ll ever want. She brings the apple to her lips, eating it greedily as he laughs at her for it, giddy and excited in a way she is as well. She knows she made the right choice when he takes a finger to trace her lips, catching the juices that have spilled down her chin and lapping them up with his tongue greedily. He places a hand over her heart and it _beats_ as he whispers “welcome home, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want Rickon to die and I see him as an Aeneas type so he's got his own destiny in this.
> 
> And I chose not to have Arya sing/play for them to release Jon, instead having Persephone and Hades see themselves in the tragedy of Jon and Arya and that be why they agree to help.
> 
> In some disputes of the myth, it’s suggested that if he really loved her, he would have been prepared to actually die for her and I think Arya would die for Jon (like he has for her!)
> 
> The heart of winter = gates of hell because even Ned Stark dreams of a “frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell”


End file.
